


Squalor victoria

by toitsu



Category: The Hobbit (2012)
Genre: AU, Angst, Other, i think i have a kink for characters dying, one sided crush?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-11
Updated: 2013-01-11
Packaged: 2017-11-25 03:48:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 548
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/634799
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/toitsu/pseuds/toitsu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The elves came.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Squalor victoria

i.

 

There is a pale gold hair spilt on the cold stone; the crown of berries and leaves entangled and crushed.

 

ii.

 

 _This is not how it was supposed to be,_ he thinks, feeling small and young and helpless. The smoke has not cleared yet, and he blames it for the stinging in his eyes.

 

In the distance, someone is cheering. The sound echoes in the empty halls and over dead bodies, dwarves and elves alike.

 

iii.

 

He was very young back then, beardless yet, when he first saw the Elvenking; impossibly tall, an ice statue, a creature impossible to touch. His hair shone purer than the Arkenstone and Thorin couldn't yet believe that to be the face of someone who has seen millenia pass.

 

He used to follow the elves around whenever they came to negotiate trades – childish curiousity, none of the malice towards that alien race that most of his kin possessed.

 

iv.

 

 _Let me mourn with you,_ he longs to say to the one who wears the crown (not leaves, it will never be leaves again – just cold metal and bright gems and a intricate, beautiful work of art that could never replace the beauty lost). Thorin crafted it himself, mithril and aquamarines and a single ruby.

 

(And a single golden hair, encassed in a crystal – but that he keeps for himself)

 

 _Let me mourn with you_ , he doesn't dare say, but perhaps the elven prince ( _nay, a king – must remember that_ ) understands, for he accepts the offered gift with the saddest, gentlest smile.

 

v.

 

Never had he thought he would wish to trade that moment of breathless relief when the elves came, with their bows and swords and ethereal beauty and wisdom beyond ages, for a – for a rage and betrayal and hatred, anything - never had he thought he would wish to trade the lives of his people and his very home so that at that point the Elvenking turned his head and led his army away.

 

vi.

 

The dragon is dead and Erebor rebuilds and stories spread, of the great beast and the alliances that held true and valor.

 

Songs are sung in honor of the many dead, and though many tell of the great Elvenking, Thorin doesn't want to listen to them – because he shouldn't have, he shouldn't have died.

 

vii.

 

He visits the Mirkwood once in his youth and upon return complains about everything – about the food ( _salads!_ ) and wine ( _not a single drop of ale to be found!_ ) and spiders and haughty elves that enjoyed provoking him.

 

(What he doesn't mention is the music and singing and dancing – how the Elvenking's hair shone under the torchlights and how his face brightened when he spoke to his son, and how he kindly asked Thorin to play a harp for him once, and how fast his heart thump thump thumped)

 

viii.

 

An arrow to the eye only serves to anger the dragon further, and the smell of charred flesh will remain imprinted in stone (and the screams echo) forever.

 

(And Thorin doesn't want to stay there anymore)

 

ix.

 

There is a hair of pale gold on the cold stone,  and the once impossibly tall figure now lay broken and bleeding and Thorin doesn't know why it feels like his heart is breaking.

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> ...and the lame thing is lame, but the idea wouldn't leave me alone, so...
> 
> Also in my headcanon Thranduil is totally the kind to charge in first, retreat last


End file.
